You Had Me at Chateau, page 1
YOU HAD ME AT CHTEAU
PORTIA MACINTOSH
For my wonderful family
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
More from Portia MacIntosh
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Portia MacIntosh
Love Notes
About Boldwood Books
1
‘As the sun began to set, and the beachgoers disappeared with it, all of a sudden it was just me and him. He reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear. He didn’t say a word to me, not with his lips. He said it with his eyes. The touch of his fingers as he grazed my face. That deep, heavy sigh that made his chest rise sharply before slowly sinking again. I could tell that he wanted me, and I wanted him too, but here? On the beach? I knew that we shouldn’t, and I think he knew too, but he didn’t care. And then he did say it with his lips. He leaned in and kissed me, removing all doubt. Why had I spent the last year thinking he just wanted to be friends? Friends don’t kiss each other like this, they don’t lay each other on the sand, slowly pull the string of their bikini, loosening it behind their neck… but this just felt right. Well, right then it did. But you never really know what the future holds.’
Silence. Stone-cold silence. Silence is never good – not in response to something like that. My God, actually saying the words, I’m cringing so hard, and yet she’s saying nothing.
‘Jen?’ I prompt her. ‘Are you there?’
‘Yep, I’m here,’ she replies, chirpy as ever.
That’s the thing about Jen, her tone is exhausting. Even when she’s telling you something that’s bad, she delivers it like she’s telling you that you just won – let me just switch to my TV game show host voice – a brand new car.
‘I thought there might be more,’ she adds.
‘No, no more,’ I reply. ‘Well, I mean, that’s the end of the chapter.’
However difficult it might be to write a book, genuinely, it’s a billion times harder to bring yourself to read it out loud to someone. I even struggle reading it to Jen and she’s my editor. I don’t know, it’s weird, because once the book is published you want everyone to read it, but at this stage, opening up that part of your brain for someone in real time, it’s scary. It’s almost like they might be able to find their way in, and see more than you want them to.
‘Right, okay,’ she says, pausing for a moment. ‘I’m just skimming through what I have in front of me.’
What she has in front of her is my first draft and, if I were to give it a working title, I’d call it something like: 50k of Shite.
Things were so great with my first four books. I wrote them so quickly – or at least it felt like I did. It was series, called Always a Bridesmaid, with each book focusing on one of the four bridesmaids in a friendship group, set over a summer full of weddings. They were such fun romcoms, set in beautiful locations, with dreamy leading men and the pages were just bursting with jokes and romance. And they were a hit! So much so that Jen offered me a contract to write another series and I bit her hand off. It turns out though that it’s not so easy to just, you know, knock out another hit.
They say everyone has a book in them, but hardly anyone has two. That’s kind of how I feel about my series.
The first one practically wrote itself. Of course, I had the idea before I turned it into a series of books. Now I have the book deal, for another four-book series, and I need to come up with the ideas. It’s nowhere near as fun this way round.
Of course, if this were something I just did for fun, I could figure it out. However, it’s not only my job (and therefore my only way to eat and keep a roof over my head), but being contracted to a publisher means sticking to certain terms and timelines.
My book – my shitty 50k – needs turning in again, in a couple of weeks, and it needs to be 25k longer. That’s why I’m on the phone with my editor, because so far our (and by our I mean her) best idea is to write flashbacks to make up the extra.
‘I did have another idea,’ I tell her. ‘And I have a good chunk of it for you to read.’
‘Oh?’ Jen replies.
‘The thing is, it’s a bit of a different genre, and—’
‘Amber, let me stop you there,’ she interrupts me. ‘You’re a romantic comedy writer. That’s what you should be writing. Actually, I know what you need to do, and I think you do too – you need to write the spicy scenes. That will make up the extra.’
I mean, I’m not sure I’ve ever read a romcom where an entire third of it was just shagging, but this has come up before, where Jen has suggested I spice things up. The thing is, I don’t have a problem with it existing in books, I’m a sex-y person (contrary to what my love life suggests), I just can’t write horny scenes to save my life. Romance – yes. Comedy – my God, I am unrelenting, on and off the page, when it comes to cracking jokes. Descriptive shagging – honestly, I can’t. I just suck. And not in the way Jen wants.
‘Well, we still have our meeting booked in,’ I start.
‘Do we?’ she replies. ‘Oh yes, of course we do.’
You can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s forgotten all about it. I did think it was weird, that she asked for a call.
‘So, how about I send you the other thing I’ve been working on, because it is still kind of a romcom, and you could glance over it, and if you think it might be stronger, maybe we could… pivot,’ I suggest.
Silence again. And then…
‘Okay, yes, send it over,’ Jen replies. ‘But, Amber, think about what I said. We need to get this draft wrapped up before Christmas, or we’re going to lose all the spots we’ve scheduled for getting the book through the different stages, and then, well, we don’t want that, do we?’
No, obviously I don’t want to breach my contract any more than I want to press pause on my income, but I have to write a book that I’m proud of, right?
‘We don’t,’ I confirm. ‘See what I send you. I think you’ll really like it.’
‘Okay but, in the meantime, finish the scene you just read to me,’ she demands. ‘Keep it going, after the kiss. Spice things up! You won’t regret it.’
We say our goodbyes, leaving it at that.
What Jen doesn’t seem to understand is that I don’t think I’ll regret it, it’s that I can’t really do it in the first place, and what is even worse than not feeling like a sexy writer is not feeling like a good writer at all. I feel so overwhelmingly, almost dangerously uninspired.
I think it’s time to shake things up. I just hope Jen agrees with me.
2
Are you ever having a bad day, or doing something difficult, or just generally feeling rubbish and you think to yourself: I wish my mum or dad were here, to make it better? I think that all the time and yet, it’s funny, because my parents seem to have the knack for making things a bit worse.
‘Okay, kids, I need you to listen carefully, because we have some news,’ Mum starts, pausing to take a deep breath. ‘Your dad and I are pre-divorcing.’
‘What?’ I squeak.
‘Really?’ Tom, my brother, says at the same time.
‘It’s important to us that you realise that sometimes things just don’t work out,’ Mum continues. ‘But we need the two of you to know that it’s not your fault. Is it, Johnny?’
Mum gives Dad a sharp jab with her elbow.
‘No, no,’ he quickly joins in. ‘It’s not your fault.’
Wait, hang on a second.
‘Pre-divorcing?’ I say, because that’s a new one to me.
‘Yes,’ Mum says, her face serious, but the hints of a smile flickering at the edges of her mouth. ‘It’s basically an intent to divorce, later, when we’ve worked out the best course of action.’
‘But wait,’ Tom chimes in. ‘What about Christmas?’
Tom’s innocent but seemingly ill-timed question breaks through the seriousness of the moment. Mum’s face visibly shifts from that of a calm therapist to that of a woman who has been pushed in front of in a queue too many times and is about to finally snap.
‘We’re getting divorced,’ Dad tells him plainly. ‘We’re not denouncing Christianity.’
‘You mean renouncing,’ Mum corrects him. ‘And, s
eeing as though it’s so important to you, Tom, we thought it would be good for us, as a family, to spend Christmas together one last time.’
‘So Santa will know where to leave our presents?’ my brother jokes – at least I think he’s joking.
I allow myself a little snort.
‘It’s nice to see you’re taking it so well,’ Dad half-jokes.
‘Sorry, I’ve just never heard of a pre-divorce,’ Tom replies. ‘Are you, like, actually doing it?’
‘Yes,’ Mum says, clearly and plainly. ‘Unless things get better.’
‘So you’re not actually divorcing?’ I check.
‘We’re pre-divorcing,’ she says again. I still don’t get it.
I just stare at her, my thoughts racing with a million questions, but there is one obvious one that I have to ask first.
‘Why are you getting divorced?’ I ask, the words feeling heavy in my mouth. ‘Or pre-divorced, or whatever the correct term is.’
Mum’s expression softens. She looks a little sad that I’m even asking her the question, but her tone remains firm as she meets my gaze.
‘It’s just not working,’ she explains simply – there is a regretful edge to her words too, though. ‘Neither of us is happy.’
Jill Page, my mum, with her impeccable posture and professional demeanour, shifts in her seat for a moment before regaining her composure. Despite retiring early from her job as a solicitor, she still carries herself with an air of professionalism – one that she probably could have retired too. Sometimes, when she tells us things, it’s as if she’s about to deliver a report rather than just, you know, talk to her kids.
I’m not expecting her to only wear twinsets and pearls and spend her days knitting – or any other silly stereotypes – it’s just that her power suits and her girl-boss bobbed hairdo aren’t as necessary as they used to be. I wish I could get her to relax a little.
‘It’s been a long time coming,’ Dad admits, offering us one of his trademark friendly smiles. ‘But hopefully you understand.’
Johnny Page, my goofy, fun-loving dad, is in his early sixties as well. He has kind eyes behind his glasses, and a sense of style that matches his demeanour – he’s so laid-back, he’s horizontal. Unlike my retired mum, Dad is still working as a tree surgeon. He always jokes about never retiring, claiming he’ll only hang up his boots when he falls out of a tree or when the world runs out of greenery. He’s a huge sci-fi nerd whereas Mum much prefers a cosy romance, and that’s just the start of how polar opposite their personalities and tastes are. When you think about it, it’s a miracle they’ve lasted this long.
‘What your dad and I need is for the two of you to be really brave, okay?’ Mum says, her tone as determined as it is sad. ‘We can all get through this, but you kids need to be strong. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Mum, we’re both in our thirties,’ I reply, deadpan, because I’m starting to think that she thinks we’re ten and thirteen, when in reality I’m thirty, Tom is thirty-three, and we’re both fully grown adults who flew the nest over a decade ago.
‘I know,’ she says softly as reality catches up with her. ‘But it still must be hard for you both.’
‘Can’t you work it out?’ Tom asks optimistically. ‘If this is only a pre thing. Maybe give things another go, for old times’ sake?’
Dad shakes his head sadly.
‘We’ve tried, mate,’ he says, and there is just something about Dad being serious that makes things seem genuinely terrifying. When Dad isn’t joking, things are bad. Honestly, even when he did the eulogy at Grandad’s funeral, he was getting laughs.
‘This seems out of nowhere,’ I point out, my mind racing to make sense of it all. ‘And Christmas sounds like it’s going to be super awkward.’
‘Just to confirm, the actual Christmas dinner will be unaffected, right?’ Tom checks.
His priorities are just fantastic, aren’t they? I’m not sure he’s taking this seriously. I’m not sure I am either, to be honest, because I’m still not sure what ‘pre-divorcing’ actually means.
Mum’s shocked expression speaks volumes.
‘I thought you two would be more distraught,’ she admits – she almost sounds disappointed.
Tom shrugs in a way that shows the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.
‘We’re all adults,’ he says simply. ‘You guys can do whatever you want. Or pre do whatever you want, or… whatever.’
‘Amber?’ Mum prompts me. ‘What do you have to say about all of this?’
‘Assuming Christmas dinner is unaffected,’ Tom reminds me, as though it makes a difference.
‘Yes, can we all shut up about Christmas bloody dinner,’ Mum snaps.
I can see the corners of my dad’s mouth twitching, as though he’s dying to laugh at Tom, but he knows it isn’t the time.
I swallow hard, to try to shift the knot that has taken up residence in my throat.
‘Obviously, I’m upset,’ I begin, because obviously I am – no matter what’s going on, I hate to hear that they’re unhappy. I just need to make sure that I say the right things. ‘And I don’t fully understand why it’s over. And of course I would rather you stay together… but I respect your decision.’
Deep down, I’m clinging to the hope that maybe they haven’t fully thought this through yet, and that when they do, they’ll change their minds. After all, they’ve been married for over thirty years, and they’ve made it this far. What a shame it would be to throw it all away now.
Mum’s expression softens, although she still seems unsatisfied.
‘It’s important to me – to us – that you kids understand that it’s nothing to do with you,’ she continues, getting the conversation back on track. ‘This is grown-up stuff.’
I try to suppress a smile, knowing all too well that it wouldn’t be appropriate given the circumstances. It’s just jarringly funny, and kind of cute, that Mum is telling us in the same way she would have done twenty years ago.
‘How about I take you both out for ice cream,’ Dad jokes, lightening the mood. ‘You’ve taken the news like good kids.’
I see something shift in Mum’s eyes. This surge of something that looks like it’s bubbling to the surface.
‘Everything’s a joke to you, Johnny,’ she snaps, as whatever it is finally boils over. ‘And that’s why we’re splitting up.’
Mum practically jumps from her seat and storms out of the living room, leaving the three of us sitting around the coffee table on our own.
Tom picks up a cream cheese and cucumber sandwich, his appetite clearly unaffected, and takes a huge bite.
Yes, obviously my mum catered telling us that she and my dad are getting a divorce.
Dad sighs heavily.
‘You kids should stay single for as long as you can,’ he suggests with a jokey smile, though you can see a hint of sadness behind his eyes. Then, as if to distract himself from the reality of the situation, he asks: ‘So, what are you two doing this evening?’
I glance at Dad, a smile creeping across my lips.
‘I have a date,’ I confess. ‘But, if it’s any consolation, those usually end with me continuing to be single, so…’
‘Ah, don’t be daft, you’ll have a great time,’ he tells me. ‘Ignore me, I’m an old cynic.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Tom says. ‘And by that I mean tell him: good luck with that. That being you.’
Do brothers ever grow out of winding you up? Because Tom has been my brother for thirty years and, I swear, he’s only getting worse. Still, aside from being siblings, we’re friends too. We both work in London so we hang out all the time, and I know that, if I ever needed him, he would be there. He just might crack a joke while he was there too.
